The Dance
by Sena Rae
Summary: She’s not sure of what she is trying to prove, not sure of where she has left her pride, not sure of what she is feeling. She just knows it’s more than she’s felt in forever, that nothing has felt this right in longer than she can remember. Set three mon
1. Chapter 1

1

A/N: A heartfelt thank you to **Bridges** for being a phenomenal beta!

Lorelai sits on the couch, surrounded by darkness and silence. The movie is long over, Judy Garland's last notes played out and finished this time. Uninterrupted.

The now-muted TV flickers light across the room and she just stares, lost in memories. It's been three months. Three incredibly lonely, uninterrupted months.

Three months since she left him standing in the street watching her walk out of his life. Three months since she made it impossible for him to ever walk back in.

She never thought she could hurt someone that badly, be so hurt in return. It wasn't the way their story was supposed to go. It wasn't supposed to end with her angry tears and his bitter accusations.

The sound of a truck door slamming has her leaping from the couch, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. He's here. It's like she's conjured him up, willed him to her through her thoughts.

She stands by the front door, waiting for the knock, feeling weak with anticipation. But the knock doesn't come.

She shakes her head, frustrated by the delusions she's created. It must have been the replay of the movie, the crispness of the memory, that has her quaking inside. She hasn't wished for him this badly in weeks now.

She wanders to the window, and her knees go weak. Light spills from the garage and she realizes it wasn't her imagination, that he was in fact there. Except not at her door. He's come for the boat. The boat, but not for her.

She steps on to the porch, wary to bring on a confrontation, but unable to stay away. The late August night is humid and sultry, the air thick with an impending storm. The air feels electric, as the tension crackles around her. Her tank top clings to her damp skin, her shorts to her bare legs.

She slips quietly into the garage, watching him for a moment, unnoticed. She's surprised he doesn't hear her heart beating, the pounding in her chest is so loud in her ears. She exhales the breath she's been holding as she searches for something to say to get his attention. She isn't fast enough; he notices her before anything of wit or value comes to mind. She sees his muscles tense, his t-shirt ripple as he freezes in place for just a second.  
"Luke," she whispers, standing directly behind him.

"I'm almost done in here; I'll move it out to do the painting," he responds without turning around.

She pauses, looking away from him. Her eyes fall to the boat. "You've been working on it," she states, realizing that in the months she has avoided the garage, the boat has been transformed.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he says defensively.

Suddenly it all becomes clear to her: he's been here before, maybe a lot of befores, and she never knew, never heard him until tonight.

She watches as he braces his left hand against the boat and sands with his right, casually dismissing her. She knows this is her cue to leave, to walk back in the house, but she's unable to tear herself away.

She's suddenly caught in the little details: the way his muscles flex as he leans into the wood. The dampness of his hair curling softly against his neck. The smells of man and sweat and wood and heaven. And she reaches out her hand to touch him, before snatching it quickly back.

He is not hers to touch anymore. 

She should leave him to it. Leave him to his beautiful boat, his handiwork evident in every loving detail. But her knees still feel weak and her heart is still pounding and this is the closest she's been to him in so long.

And before she can stop herself, she has reached out to slide her hand along his arm, the skin taut, the muscles flexing beneath her fingers. He is hot to the touch, and her body responds, heat rising to her cheeks. He stiffens but doesn't retreat, and she steps closer behind him, her right hand smoothing the damp material across his back.

She leans into him, her breath a whisper across the back of his neck. She can see him shiver in reaction. He takes a deep breath and she hesitates for just a moment, holding her own, praying he won't tell her to stop.

She slides her hand around his middle, fingers splaying across his abdomen. She steps closer still, until she can press her cheek against his shoulder in a soft caress. He stops pretending to work now, bracing himself with both arms against the rail of the boat.

She's not sure of what she is trying to prove, not sure of where she has left her pride, not sure of what she is feeling. She just knows it's more than she's felt in forever, that nothing has felt this right in longer than she can remember. 

"Lorelai," he breathes out, more of a sigh than a word as she kisses the back of his neck, trembling now with each step she's taking.

His hand covers hers, and his fingers circle her wrist, in protest of her touch. But she resists his attempt to dismiss her, pressing herself even tighter to him. Her anguished moan is muffled against his shirt, as she drinks in just another moment.

"Let me," she whispers in his ear, pleading to continue.

There is something dream-like about their actions, something caught out of time, that has no thought of consequences or of regrets. Only this moment matters, this moment where she's captured him once again, if only physically. Her heart shudders slightly at the acknowledgement of that little truth, but that will be the price she will pay . . . tomorrow.

She bites gently at his shoulder, her movements rhythmic and arousing. She's totally caught up in the sensations, the warmth of his body, the feel of his strength.

He tugs at her wrist to turn her, and she slides easily around him. She gives them no time to hold each other's gaze or to mutter empty words. Her lips slide hungrily against his, her tongue asking entrance, as she continues her assault on his senses.

Their dance is familiar, the movements practiced and sure. They've held each other like this many times before. She slides her foot up the back of his calf, and his knee slips between her legs.

But she can feel his resistance, his hesitancy, as he slows her movements, checks their progress, steadies himself. She can almost feel the battle going on in his mind as she braces herself for his rejection.

She releases his lips slowly, twining her arms around his neck. And she can't be the first to step back, because somehow that wouldn't be fair. And fair is all she wants now, as forgiveness and regret are things best left in the past. She leans forward again and kisses his neck, burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder.

"How many nights?" she asks. Because it suddenly seems important to know.

"Every night," he answers, his voice soft with emotion.

She catches her breath at the sudden pain of his confession, at the shame it causes her.

"Luke," she whispers, her eyes closed tightly against the burning tears she won't let fall. She doesn't want to ruin this moment with futile tears or selfish indulgences. She doesn't want to cry and wail against fate or what wasn't meant to be. There will time enough for tears later, when he's gone, when she's alone again.

And so she drowns her feelings of remorse in the simple touch of him, denial a tangible force between them as she places soft kisses on his lips once more, one and then two, brushing and teasing the way he likes. She feels compelled to please him, helpless in her attempt to tempt him. For there are no words that she can say that can wipe away the pain she has caused him.

More than anything, she wants him to be the last one to have ever touched her, to ever touch her again. And although she knows the thought is selfish, and maybe even cruel, she's unable to push it from her mind.

Her soft caresses are suddenly mocked by his strong demands, as he deepens the kiss, drawing her into his tight embrace. She luxuriates in every touch, memorizes every feeling, imprints him in her memories; as she feels him take control. She's not sure what has made him change his mind, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, except this moment. It will be enough for her, she swears, something to replace the bitter past, to replace the touch of another.

Their eyes meet as he releases her suddenly. The resignation she sees in the depths of his causes pain to radiate swiftly across her chest, making her sway momentarily. His look says it all: nothing will change the past.

The loss of his touch has stolen her breath, making her unable to utter a sound. She stays frozen in place, waiting for him to turn away, unable to hide her disappointment.

When he does, her heart drops, even though she knows this is the way it should be. He takes one step, then two, stopping without turning to face her.

"Are you coming?" he asks, impatiently.

It's her turn to hesitate now, to fear what new pain this will bring. But she can't deny him, not now, not after she's put this all in motion.

She can do this, she thinks. She can savor this night, savor every touch, every last moment.

And she can let him go in the morning.

The storm has broken and large raindrops soak them as they race across the lawn to the front porch. Once there, he stops to face her, running his hands up and down her rain-slicked arms for just a moment, before kissing her softly, giving her one last chance to walk away from what she has started. In response, she leads him, up the stairs and to the bedroom

And so their dance begins again, as soft touches turn to passion, and melting kisses turn to demands for more. They each draw out the moments, trying to remember the last time they tried this hard to make it perfect for each other.  
He pauses over her, removing his lips from her skin to whisper, "Do you still love me?" His words break the silence and he slows his movements, drawing out the moment. It isn't hard for her to answer; he deserves her honesty and she gives it. She only wishes he could truly know, truly believe: it's always been him. Always, even when it wasn't.

"Yes. . . I love you, I love you," she chants over and over, as he begins to move once more, his steady thrusts bringing them to a point of no return. She grasps at his arms, unable to stop the sudden fear of their completion, of the end of something she will never get back.

And if for a moment she begs in her mind to hear those words repeated back from his lips, she excuses herself for her weakness. Excuses herself from wanting something that she once so carelessly threw away.

"I'll always love you," she whispers, tightening her arms fiercely around him. When her words are met with silence, she wills her heart to turn off once more, unwilling as it is to accept the rejection she feels. Her heart shudders in protest at the finality of it all and she reminds herself: having him here is more than she deserves.

She heard him leave when it was still almost dark, when dawn's light hadn't quite reached the room. She kept her promise to herself: she let him go, even though she wanted nothing more than to beg him to stay with her.

She curled up on herself and willed her mind to go back to sleep, but any pretense of that left when she heard the click of the front door and tears began to flow.

She doesn't know how long she's laid in bed now, tears drying on her cheeks, going over each kiss, each touch, filing the memory in her mind to take out again later.

She just knows there is no room for regrets, no room for recriminations, no room for thoughts about a future that just doesn't exist anymore.

Rising, she splashes her face, staring at herself for a moment in the mirror. Does she look older? she wonders. She feels older somehow, like she's aged overnight.

Dressing quickly, she makes her way downstairs. As she wanders into the kitchen, she realizes that there's nothing to show that he was here last night: no coffee pot on, no shirt left carelessly over the chair. It all could have been a dream.

She wanders to the front door, intent on seeing the boat, on proving to herself that she didn't imagine it all. She needs to see it, the last little piece of Luke.

She steps out into the bright sunlight, intent on her purpose, only to be caught off guard by the figure sitting on the porch steps.

"Luke," she says quietly, her heart racing, wondering why he hasn't made his escape yet.

"I thought you left," she adds, meeting his eyes as he comes to stand in front of her.

"I made it to the stairs," he shrugs, looking older himself this morning. She doesn't know how to react to that, what to say next, so she just waits for him to continue.

"I forgot to tell you something," he says finally, looking at her closely, his serious gaze making her apprehensive.

She braces herself for his words, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle. She just feels so tired. Tired of the guilt, tired of the mistakes, tired of so many nights spent wishing he was here.

"I love you, too," he says softy, making her eyes fly up to meet his.

For a moment, she just takes in his words, letting them soothe her. She's tempted to throw herself into his arms, to do anything to ease the weariness she can see in his face. But in the harsh light of day it's just not that easy, not that simple.

He shuffles his feet, inpatient now for her to respond, and that little action has her heart stuttering back to life.

"Do you want to come back in?" she asks, a soft plea in her eyes, a hint of a smile forming on her face. And it's just a question, just a small request, but it feels so huge, so scary.

"Yeah," he answers, smiling gently back at her.

"I'll make us some coffee," she states, as she holds the door open for him to follow her, daring him to contradict her.

"I'd like that," he replies, meeting her proud gaze for a minute with one of his own, before closing the door firmly behind him.

_ i fin_

And now. . . I'm glad I didn't know. The way it all would end, the way it all would go.  
Our lives. . . are better left to chance. I could have missed the pain.  
But I'd of had to miss the dance. - Garth Brooks /i  



	2. Chapter 2

1A/N: I intended this to just be a one-shot story, but I couldn't get Luke's thoughts out of my head, so I wrote them down, and chapter two came to life. I don't know if I intend to keep this story going now, I guess it depends on where my wandering mind takes me.

_ i Holding you, I held everything, for a moment wasn't I the king.  
But if I'd only known, how the king would fall,_

_Hey who's to say, you know I might have changed it all. /I _

At first, when sleep eluded him, and his thoughts drove him out into the night and to her house, it was enough just to know she was home, not with _ i him. /I _And as days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months, it was satisfying to still know that she slept alone, as he did, every night.

He thinks back of the nightly fantasies he wove inside his mind those first couple of weeks, as he painstakingly worked on the boat. How many nights did he wish for her touch, only to be assaulted anew by the bitterness of how she left him? How many fantasies has he had of her finding him here, of approaching him, of begging forgiveness? How many times did he push her away in his mind, watching her tear-stained face beg him to stay, as he just shook his head and walked away, feeling justified and absolved finally? How many times did he feed his ego on the pain in her eyes, on the strength of his certainty that he could be the one to turn and go, the word - i _never_ /I - falling from his lips as easily as it did hers?

But she's never woken, never called, never begged or pleaded for a second chance. And the hurt and bitterness that he felt in the beginning has long ago burned itself out, leaving nothing left but the pain of being without her.

And the clarity of knowing now, everything he did wrong . . .

He falls into bed after the diner closes, exhausted, and is asleep within minutes. His body is just too tired to think or function anymore and it shuts down, reluctantly. He's lucky if he gets three consecutive hours.

He jerks awake somewhere around midnight, his restless mind suddenly alert, his heart pounding in his chest. He can't remember the dream that woke him. He never remembers. He doesn't want to remember.

He has stopped fighting the urge to go over to her house now. He did in the beginning, pacing the floor until he couldn't stand himself anymore, before reluctantly walking the distance to Lorelai's garage. But now it's become routine, part of his nightly ritual. And it's almost a relief when he wakes to do something, anything, to keep himself occupied.

It's been a hot summer, and he can feel the sweat seep from his pores as he rises in his tiny apartment. He steps into the shower, the cold water blasting, bringing him fully awake. Dressing quickly, he escapes the four walls that have become claustrophobic.

The summer air is crackling tonight, the impending storm looming closer. It fits his mood: restless, jumpy, dissatisfied.

He takes the truck tonight. He never takes the truck. He always walks to her house, quietly entering the garage as she sleeps. But tonight, he's almost daring fate to intervene, as he slams the truck door in her driveway.

Turning the light on in the garage, he admires his handiwork. It's almost done. It's taken him months to complete it, to get it just right. He runs his fingers over the wood, feeling for imperfections, delaying the inevitable end of his task. And he wonders what he will do to keep himself sane after the boat is finished.

It's been good to come here night after night. It's been healing to make something broken and incomplete into something fine and beautiful. It's been right, fulfilling the dream, seeing his father's boat come to life.

He remembers when he couldn't even look at this boat without seeing the pain in his father's eyes again, without dwelling on the inevitable end and what he had lost. But she changed all that, she made him talk. She helped him to remember the sunny days on the lake of his childhood, his father's love of fishing and boating, the great times they spent together. He remembers telling her the silly fishing stories that most boys and their dad have, hearing her laughter and her pleasure in his memories. He can almost hear his father's laugh again when he closes his eyes now. He can picture him standing knee deep in water, head thrown back, enjoying the day and life and his son reeling in his first trout. She gave that back to him he knows, the ability to treasure the good days, the happy times, the precious moments. And for that he will be forever grateful to her.

And though he'd like to deny it, the boat will always be linked to her now too, to her memory, to her laughter, to everything he had that he let slip through his fingers.

What had he told her that night he found the boat? Something about her always thinking about what she wanted, of not respecting his wishes. But he was so wrong, and she was so right. He wanted her to go on thinking like she thinks, but somehow in the end. . . he took that away from her too.

When did she start being afraid of him? . . . When did she stop telling him things?. . . When did he stop seeing her?

He should have realized that she was bending herself to try to make him happy. But he didn't realize it until she bent so far she broke. And the shattered pieces of their lives together were so small that neither one of them could pick them up and put them back together again. And neither one of them had the energy left to try.

He is so tired, his body almost trembling with the effort he's putting into the sanding. But he won't stop working, not until his mind is purged, not until he's exhausted every stray thought of her so he can get through another day.

He can almost smell her perfume and he stiffens at the reaction just the scent brings to him.

"Luke," she whispers. And a first he's sure he is dreaming, conjuring her up like his fantasies.

"I'm almost done in here; I'll move it out to do the painting," he responds without turning around, banishing the ghosts from his mind.

"You've been working on it."

And at the sound of her voice, so close to him, he realizes this is real, she's here after so many nights of fantasizing. And the feelings rush anew to overwhelm him, confuse him.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he answers, feeling vulnerable, caught out.

And he expects her to leave, to retreat in the face of his defensiveness. He holds his breath waiting to hear her footsteps. But she doesn't walk away this time, she touches him instead, without the words he thought he needed to hear, without the confrontation he's practiced over and over.

He can feel her trembling behind him.

And it's her silence that undoes him, her fear that brings him to his knees.

It's her willingness to bend for him that has him humbled, that has his broken heart beating again.


	3. Chapter 3

1He pulls the door shut, the click sounding loud in the sudden silence.

Walking quickly to the kitchen, she starts to make coffee, her movements unconscious and practiced. She notices her hands shaking as she takes two mugs out of the cabinet. She takes a calming breath and places a tentative smile on her face before turning to face him.

"I'll make you some tea," she states, needing to keep busy, to get her nerves to settle.

"I'll have coffee," he answers, still looking serious and tired.

"You don't drink coffee," she answers.

"I've started having a cup a day, in the morning. It helps wake me up," he says with a shrug.

"Really?" she says surprised. If there was one thing she thought Luke would never compromise on, it would be coffee consumption.

"I like it," he says defensively.

"Well, you do make wonderful coffee," she smirks.

"Secret ingredient," he smirks back.

Pouring him a cup she places it in front of him and slides into the nearest kitchen chair. It's so strange to have him sitting here. It's so strange to be making him coffee, to have him drinking coffee. What else has he changed in his life?

"It's good," he says, obviously enjoying it.

"Secret ingredient," she whispers, raising her eyebrows at him. "I have skills you know."

"I never doubted that for a minute," he says, serious again.

They lapse into silence for a minute or two, both trying to process. It's like her verbal skills have just flown out the window, making her feel exposed and vulnerable without her blanket of witty babble. And the tension in the room grows as she leaves him to start the talking.

"What was that last night Lorelai?" he says finally.

"Well, that's straight to the point," she answers, jumping up from the table to refill her cup. And her hands shake even more this time. She doesn't sit, she's unable to relax. She leans against the kitchen counter, her hands clenched on the coffee cup.

"I don't know," she says, not meeting his eyes, afraid of seeing the censure there.

"Come on Lorelai, I need to know what you're thinking."

"Luke, I can't. . . explain it."

Standing now he approaches her, but she still doesn't look at him.

"Just say it. Don't try to sugar coat it. Just say what you were feeling."

"God Luke, you make it sound so easy. Just spill your guts Loreali, cause he's going to just stand there and understand and everything's going to be all new and pretty," she answers sarcastically, slamming the cup down on the counter.

"I know everything's not going to be new or pretty Lorelai, give me some credit here," he says in a tired voice, walking over to the sink to rinse his coffee cup, not reacting to her angry outburst.

And there's something about the ease he's showing with her things that is bugging her, although she's not really sure why it should. After all, this house was practically his, her things practically his things, but that was another time and place and now it just feels invasive.

"I just wanted. . . . no . . . I just needed to . . . ," she stumbles over the words to explain her motives, but she just can't find the words, doesn't want to explain herself now, especially when he's moved so close to her she can almost reach out and touch him.

"Loreali," he starts again, using his soothing voice, his I know you want to tell me voice, reaching out to her.

But she backs into the corner of the room, out of his grasp, a feeling of panic overwhelming her.

Taking a deep breath, she starts again, "I needed a different ending. . . to us. I didn't want it to end with the memory of someone else between us. I needed it to at least end. . . honestly. Damn it Luke, you were supposed to be gone this morning. You weren't supposed to be on the front porch, you aren't supposed to be here in my kitchen, drinking my coffee."

"So, this. . . " he gestures wildly, "is just a different ending to the story. Is that it?" and she can see the anger he's holding in check.

"I don't know. I convinced myself that it was, that I could handle that, that I was okay with that. Last night, it was . . . perfect. It was everything I wanted, you were everything I wanted. And even though you didn't tell me you loved me, it was okay, it was what I deserved, it was . . . enough. It was more than I ever thought I'd have again. . . "

"God Loreali. Don't you think I tried. I just couldn't get the words to come out. And it's not that I wasn't feeling them, I just . . ." he trails off, pacing away from her, his back turned.

"I just needed . . . to know first. . ." he stops, taking a deep breath, and turns to look in her eyes from across the room.

"I needed to know that you still loved me. I needed it more than breathing. I needed your voice,

your words telling me over and over. God, that sounds so selfish," he ends, shrugging his shoulders, shaking his head.

"No. It doesn't. I understood," she answers. "I was awake when you left. I stayed in bed forever just going over and over everything in my head. And I understood your needs Luke, I've always understood."

"Because this wasn't the first time I disappointed you, was it? This isn't the first time I left you waiting for more from me, is it?" he asks.

"Luke, don't. . .you don't have to do this. . ."

"I got as far as the stairs and I couldn't walk down them. I just couldn't walk away. And believe me, I've practiced being the one to walk away in my mind a million times," he answers, mocking himself.

"So I just sat there, thinking. Thinking about all the times I should have told you, should have let you in. I didn't want to be that guy again. You know, the guy that knows exactly what you need, but he just holds back, just enough to make you crazy, to make you doubt. And it's not like he doesn't know what he's doing, he does, he just. . . he just can't . . . "

"Luke, it's okay," she placates, not wanting him to do this, not able to process this yet.

"Damn it Lorelai, it's not okay. I don't want to be that guy anymore. I'm ashamed of that guy. And I'm ashamed when you tell me it's okay, when it's not okay. It was never okay. I get that," he answers, his anger surfacing.

"You're right, I'm sorry. I just can't do this anymore," she sighs.

"It's not pretty, is it?" he mocks.

"No, it's not," she agrees.

"God, look at us Luke. I've backed myself into this corner, you've paced yourself into that one," gesturing to him across the room. "We're so afraid of getting hurt, of hurting each other. We are so not ready for any of this."

"What are we ready for?" he asks quietly.

"It's been okay, being on my own. It's been good, really to not have to plan or expect anything from anyone else but myself, to just take things a day at a time."

"I've missed you," he whispers under his breath.

And her heart leaps at the sound of his confession, at his honesty. And she knows her words about being alone have hurt him.

"I've missed you too," she answers, smiling at him through the pain. "I've missed coming into the diner. I've missed your coffee. I've missed you showing up to fix something. I've missed your fights with Taylor. I've missed telling you about Rory or complaining to you about my parents . . . "

"We can still have all those things Lorelai," he interrupts, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"Can we Luke, really? Can we still be friends?" she asks skeptically.

"Will you come to the diner?" he challenges, knowing that will be hard for her, maybe too hard.

"I don't' know. Maybe," she shrugs, knowing she really wants to, but it seems like such a huge thing right now.

"When you're ready, I'll be there," he says gently.

"Okay. Will you come and finish the boat?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"Will you take me for a ride when it's done?" she asks coyly.

"Sure," he laughs, "someone has to find out whether it will float or not."

"Sink or swim, I'll with you," she quips.

"Sink or swim," he nods in agreement.

And she knows it's still not pretty, but it's more than what she'd hoped for.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

1A/N: If you've never seen "The Way We Were" the boat references may not make sense. Sorry. A light chapter to be followed soon by the dreaded angst monster.

"Best childhood memory," she says, laughing and because it seems like forever since he's heard her laugh, it's impossible not to play along.

And he has to stop and think for a minute before he can answer her, because for so long his memories were colored by too much pain. He can't believe she has him participating in this game. He reminded her that this wasn't a sailboat and they weren't on the ocean but it didn't seem to matter to her. To her, this was as luxurious as the fanciest yacht.

He tries not to think at how silly they probably look drinking champagne out of plastic wine glasses, floating around in a fishing boat. She lifts her face to the sun, enjoying the warmth, and waits patiently for his answer.

"It was here, at this lake. I was probably around six or seven.. My father had been teaching me how to swim all summer. I can remember standing on the end of the dock, just looking down at the water that I knew was way over my head, my heart was pounding so hard, I thought I was going to faint. I was supposed to dive off and swim to the shore. You know, big surprise for my Mom and all. My father was in the water, waiting for me to jump, and I just froze. I mean, I really couldn't move. It's the first time I really felt fear."

She leans forward now, giving him all her attention, waiting to hear what happened.

"I remember my Dad yelled my name, trying to get my attention, but I couldn't stop staring down at the water. Finally he came right up to the dock and started talking, whispering so my Mom wouldn't hear. I still remember his words. i I know you're scared.. It's okay to be scared, because I'm scared too. You have to take the first step by yourself. You have to make the decisioin to jump. I can't do it for you. But once you do, I'll be with you every step of the way. I won't let you down. I promise. /i "

"So what did yo do?"

"I jumped," he answered, frowning.

"And I swam my heart out. It never felt better to reach the shore than it did that day," he laughs self-consciously. "I'll never forget the smile on his face when I came out of the water," he adds quietly.

"Good memory," she agrees.

"Hey, my turn now," he chides, embarrassed by his boyhood pride.

"Best first kiss," he asks, hoping to fluster her just a little.

"Hmmm, well there really is only one first kiss you know. So, that would have been Tommy Winston III, first grade," she answers easily.

"Geeze, first grade?" he mocks.

"Hey, I started early," she mocks back.

Backing the truck into Lorelai's driveway, Luke gives her a satisfied smile and a small wink before jumping out to unhitch the boat.

"You should be very proud, Luke, of what you've done here. The boat is just beautiful," she states.

"Yeah, he would have loved this," he says easily. And he's pleased at how easy it has become to talk about his Dad with her, how easy she's made it for him.

It was fitting that she was the one to help him christen the boat, even though actually breaking a bottle against the bow was more than either of them could accomplish. But they found a better use for the champagne.

It was a good day. The best day he'd had in a long while.

"Do you want to come in? Order a pizza or something? You have to be starved by now," she asks, tugging on his sleeve.

"Come to the diner," he states, holding his ground against her tugs.

"Cheeseburger, chili fries . . . pie," he tempts, laughing at her groans, knowing he may have finally convinced her to cross over into his world again.

"You win, mister," she relents, laughing back at him. "But only because I'm starving, famished, weak . . ."

As they drive back to the diner, he thinks about the last month, and how far they have come. It was easy to fall into a new routine. He still worked on the boat every night, but now he came earlier, so she could join him. Sometimes only she talked, amusing him with her witty anecdotes of Inn patrons or Emily's latest endeavors. But sometimes he would talk, sharing with her a memory or something that had happened to him in the days he had been working on the boat. He'd forgotten how many things he had wanted to share with her, that he needed to tell her.

At first, they were careful, both worried about saying the wrong thing or stepping on each other's toes. But before long, it almost felt like they had fallen back into the past, back into the dance that they had shared for eight years.

But this time, the line that they can't cross is etched even deeper in the sand.

He tries not to dwell on the fact that she has firmly put them back into the category of friends.

They enter the diner together to the amusement of most of the regulars. It's been no secret that Luke has not been closing up the diner for weeks now, that he was at Lorelai's instead.

"So, how did it go? Did it sink? Because I have scuba equipment if you need me to do a salvage job for you?" Kirk comments, as Lorelai sits at the counter.

"I didn't sink Kirk," Luke retorts, yelling for Caesar as he enters the kitchen.

It only takes Caesar a minute before he sticks his head out from behind the partition to smile at Lorelai.

"The Works, right?" he asks her, with a big smile on his face.

"Double cheese," she answers.

Luke comes back after a minute, dragging her off the stool and steering her toward the window table.

"You're going to join me?" she laughs, impressed.

"Yeah, I'm going to join you," he grins back, lowering himself into the seat across from her.

Looking out of the window at the gazebo for a minute, he can't stop grinning.

"What?" she asks, questioning.

"This is a pretty good table," he says, relaxing back in his chair.

"Yeah, we've always liked it, Rory and I," she agrees.

And it's so natural to reminisce in between news of what's going on now in Rory's life. So easy to discuss Jess and all of his accomplishments. Easier still to talk about April and how much she's become part of his life, to share his parental worries about boys and college choices. It's so safe to keep the conversation about the kids in their lives, instead of the adults. They haven't talked about Anna or Christopher. And it still pains him that they have an Anna and a Christopher that they have to deal with. Life would be so simple if it was just about them.

She looks content, beautiful, but she always looks beautiful. And he can spend hours just looking at her, and realizes that he has, always looked at her. For years he knew every detail of her expressions, studied her every move, as she waltzed in and out of his life on a daily basis. He was so in tune with her, reading her emotions with just a glance. It became the barometer of their relationship, her daily visits. Balancing pie and small talk, being a friend when she needed one, lecturing her when she need that too.

He's just realizing how much he missed that last six months of their relationship. He can't remember her being in the diner beyond the night she ran in here to tell him Rory was back. No matter how hard he tries, the only other time that sticks in his mind, is when she met April. Except for the night she dragged him out into the street, of course.

"Hey, what's the frown for?" she asks, nudging him out of his thoughts.

"I can't believe how much I missed having you here," he confesses.

"Well, just try to keep me away from these fries, mister," she laughs, as Caesar brings them their food.

"And the coffee," he adds.

"Definitely the coffee, and maybe . . . I'll come in for the company," she counters.

"I'll always be waiting for you," he answers unconsciously before he realizes the seriousness of his statement. And he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable, but he can't take it back, because it's true, and it's been too long since he let her know that.

He can see the flush rising to her cheeks, and he watches, amazed as she shyly smiles back at him.

"Best table in a diner." he asks, lightening the mood.

"Well . . . Lukes, of course," she laughs.

Yes. It's been a very good day.


	5. Chapter 5

1There was something so comforting about knowing that she could walk back into the diner whenever she liked. She had missed it.

That's not exactly true, she realizes. Who is she kidding? She had missed him.

But she has him back now, and if it is tentative and careful, it's okay. It's something. It's real and honest and comforting. It is something that all of their failures at communication didn't manage to kill. It is a friendship. And this time she's not going to let it go, because it means so much more to her than she realized.

Dragging the bags out of the Jeep, she bursts in the door to show him her purchases, even though he is probably not going to be fascinated by teeny tiny clothes and itsy bitsy socks, the way she is.

"Shopping again," he states, shaking his head as she dumps her bags onto the floor next to a counter stool.

"I got the cutest things for the baby," she exclaims, "holding up a tiny Red Sox jersey for his inspection."

"What if he's a Mets fan?" he asks dryly.

"Your nephew? Right," she laughs, folding the clothes and goodies into a gift bag for Liz.

"Are you going over to Liz's now?"

"No. I have to finish up something at the Inn first, then I'll stop by. How about you? Are you going over again tonight? You've been there a lot lately."

"The baby's been fussy. I guess four weeks of not sleeping is making Liz kind of fussy too. TJ is completely useless. Liz says when the baby goes into a crying jag, so does TJ. She has to kick him out of the house until everyone calms down. I've been trying to help out where I can."

"Oh, poor TJ," she laughs. "And poor Liz. But you. . . are a great uncle."

"Thanks, remember to tell him that when he's seventeen and I steal his car," he quips.

She was anxious to drop off the gift to Liz and go home and collapse. What should have taken her an hour turned into a three hour marathon. Pulling into Liz's she's relieved to see the lights still on and a little surprised to see TJ in the driveway, pacing.

"Hey, you okay," she asks.

"I know the Doctor said it was simple colic, but I can't stand it when he cries like that. I'm going for a walk," he chokes out, walking quickly away.

Going to the back door, Liz ushers her into the house, looking tired and flustered.

"Lorelai, how great to see you," she says, giving her a big hug.

"Hey, is everything okay?" she asks, hearing a baby's distressful cries echoing from the other room.

"Luke's here. He's just wonderful with him. I know I'm overtired, and TJ's stressing me out, so I'm stressing the baby out. Thank God for Luke. He's the only sane one around here lately. He's got the magic touch, I tell ya. It's amazing. Go see," she encourages. "I think I'm going to try and catch up with TJ. A good walk should calm us both down."

She walks to the door of the living room and just stares, amazed at the picture in front of her. Luke is walking slowly back and forth across the room, a tiny baby against his shoulder. She hears him murmur softly, almost humming soothing sounds and words.

She watches as he runs his fingers up and down the soft t-shirt clad back in a soft rhythm. The baby's wails have slowed to fussy noises now as he keeps up the pacing. Tiny hands clench his flannel between tiny fingers. The baby rubs his face fretfully for a minute against the soft material before exhaling and relaxing against his shoulder, giving into sleep. Luke's completely involved in his task of soothing the baby, oblivious of everything else, and the look of love on his face is a revelation.

The sight is almost too beautiful to bear, the pain hitting her hard and fast. And she must have made some unintelligible sound because he lifts his eyes to her and catches her glance from across the room. His face is unreadable, hers is not.

Backing out of the room, she retreats both mentally and physically. She needs to leave, to go home, to hide from the thoughts running through her head. Because they aren't good ones and she knows they aren't fair. She doesn't want to face them right now, at least not with company or with him or anywhere she can't scream at the top of her lungs if she needs to.

Entering the house, she doesn't even turn on any lights. She curls up on the couch, arms hugging bent knees. She needs to think, she needs to process and get past the pain of seeing everything she ever wanted played out in front of her in living color.

She's surprised at the anger she feels. Sometimes she thinks she hates him. Sometimes she knows she still resents that he held so many of her dreams just out of reach.

The pounding of footsteps on the porch doesn't surprise her. The key turning in the lock does.

"Lorelai," he yells entering in house, quickly coming into the living room.

"Forget to knock?" she asks sarcastically, surprised at his boldness, at his insistence in seeing her.

"Yeah, I did," he snipes. And she realizes that he's just as angry as she is, although she's not sure why.

"Why did you leave like that?" he asks, dropping down on the couch next to her.

"Luke, I just needed to come home. I don't really want to talk about it," she answers coldly. She really doesn't. She has come to grips with this before and she'll do it again. She's stronger than this, she knows, it was just unexpected and she didn't see it coming. She knows she's being unfair to Luke, but it's better that he doesn't know what's rolling around in her head right now, better than he doesn't see how bitter she can be, how angry.

"Lorelai, talk to me, please," he tries again, reasonably.

"Really, Luke, I think you should just leave, okay?" she says, determined. She doesn't want to resurrect the pain or the past. Some things are better left unsaid.

He reaches over to touch her arm, to implore, but she shrugs him away.

"Don't touch me . . . not now," she says quietly.

"Damn it Lorelai," he exclaims, jumping up from the couch, obviously frustrated with her clipped responses.

But she still can't answer him, because what can she say? It's not his fault that she pinned all her hopes and dreams on him. She realized long ago that she created expectations that were unfair.

"Luke, please," she tries again, struggling with her need to be alone, to get through this without him.

"I'm not going until you talk to me. I'm never walking away again not understanding what's gong on with you. I made that mistake once," he says unwavering.

The anger is keeping her detached and that's a good thing. Maybe she does need to tell him. Maybe if she just says it they can put it away and file it done.

"You dangled that carrot in front of me, until I wanted it so much that I couldn't breath," she starts, trying to explain her random thoughts.

"I wanted another kid . I wanted to get married. But you didn't. . . . you weren't ready and I couldn't wait. So I threw it away Luke. I tossed it out like it was so much garbage. And I tell myself sometimes that I hate you for making me want it so badly, for making me so crazy but really I just can't stand myself anymore. I can't stand what I did," she sighs, dry-eyed and determined to stay that way.

"I saw you holding that baby and it was like looking at everything I ever wanted mocking me saying - hey look what you could have had if you didn't screw it up. I have to live with that. I have to accept that and move on or simply go completely insane. And I have really, but sometimes it just takes you by surprise, like tonight and . . . you're not expecting it, not prepared for the shock of it," she continues, the words tumbling out in a heap at his feet.

"I didn't understand how important it was to you until it was too late and you were gone. I have to live with that too, that I lost you because I was too stubborn and too slow, too afraid," he answers, his own anger at himself obvious.

"I never meant to hurt you like that," he sighs, dropping back down onto the couch next to her.

"I know," she replies. It wasn't as hard as she thought it would be, to just say it all out loud, to just let him see it. Maybe this is proof of how far they have come, that they can tell each other the bad things and not end up walking away after. Maybe she really does have the best of Luke back, the one that understands her without judging, the one that unconditionally loves her no matter what.

"We're quite a pair, aren't we?" she states wryly, glancing over at him, pleased that he hasn't left yet, feeling the anger drain away.

"Yeah. That must be why we're perfect for each other," he answers dryly, his own acceptance of their past, their mistakes, making everything so much easier for her.

They sit in silence for a minute, both lost in their own thoughts, shifting gears, moving forward, if only in little steps.

"Do you think she cried?" he asks tiredly, rubbing the back of his neck, a sure sign of tension and emotion.

And for a moment she's confused at where he's going until she realizes he's talking about April.

"I wonder if she cried. . . I wonder if she needed me to hold her and soothe her. . . and it absolutely kills me that I wasn't there," he chokes out, the emotion in his voice clear.

And for the first time she really sees everything he's been holding back about his daughter. How much confusion he's been in. How did she not realize that for Luke, dealing with the past would be a long painful process. She knew him well enough that she should have known that. Tears she refuses to shed for herself come to the surface for Luke. It hurts to see him struggle with everything he missed. She can't imagine what it would be like if years of Rory's life were taken away from her, if she had to wonder if her child was in need or if she let her down.

Why didn't she see it? Why didn't she understand what he was going through? Was she that self-centered, that self-focused ? Tears streak down her cheeks as the enormity of how far apart they had gotten in the past, hits her again.

She sees a baby and sees a lost future, he sees a baby and sees a lost past.

They look into each other's eyes, understanding more in this moment about each other than they have in a long time.

He reaches out to wipe a stray tear from her face, the tears standing still in his own. He tugs at her gently, giving her room to refuse, but she slides gratefully into his arms. He pulls her across his lap and she tucks her face into his shoulder, her hand as gripping his flannel as tightly as Liz's baby boy was.

"I'm glad you came," she whispers, suddenly wrapping her arms around his neck to hold him tighter, the longing for him sudden and overpowering.

"I'm glad you didn't kick me out," he counters, running his fingers up and down her back, soothing them both.

She leans back to look at him, to touch his face, to make sure he's okay.

"I think you should know, that I kinda like you," she says, kissing him sweetly.

"Yeah, I kinda like you too," he answers, kissing her back.

"Luke?" she whispers, distracting him from path he's making with his lips across her face.

"Hmmm," he answers.

"If we don't get back together, I mean if things just don't work out for us, we'll always be there for each other, won't we? We'll always be friends, right?" she asks, moaning a little as he reaches her neck, sucking gently on the skin above her collarbone.

"Always," he whispers against her lips, kissing her gently, until he hears the little noise she makes in the back of her throat that drives him crazy.

"You think we're ready for this?" she asks, pulling back slightly, knowing that in a minute it won't matter if she's ready or not because she'll just be too far gone to care.

"Well, someone very wise once told me, that sometimes. . . . you just have to jump," he answers with a slight smile.

She leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder, taking in his words.

"I won't let you down this time. I promise," she whispers in his ear, moved by his trust.

"I never doubted that for a minute," he replies easily.

"And Lorelai. . . I'll be with you this time, every step of the way. I promise," he vows.

The End


End file.
